You Remind Me of Home
by simplyshelbs16
Summary: Based off Taylor Swift's 'Christmas Tree Farm.' Post TFP. Sherlock and Molly have been inseparable since the phone call-the best of friends. Both are afraid to cross the fragile line that separates friends from lovers. Sherlock whisks Molly away on a surprise trip where romance ensues.
1. In My Heart is a Christmas Tree Farm

Molly Hooper loved Christmas, but she hated spending it alone every single year. It was why she made sure to be working Christmas Eve night through Christmas morning every year if at all possible. The dead kept her company although they weren't much of an audience. Whatever family she had left, she was estranged from them. She grew up in a cosy tudor-style cottage on a Christmas Tree Farm. Her parents had a shared love of growing these magnificent trees. When the nights turned cold, the many strings of lights were put up, all aglow when people came from all over to find the perfect tree.

Children bundled up so snugly would dance around beneath the lights, their eyes growing wide when they saw the biggest trees. Her parents always had complementary warm cider prepared for everyone who came 'round. Molly loved her cider with whipped cream, a sprinkle of ground cloves and a cinnamon stick peeking out of the cup. Those were the best Christmastime memories she had. Molly became the sole owner of the farm and cottage when her parents passed on. She's had several caretakers over the past few years, who kept the trees growing, but nobody resided in it currently, and financially, she was having trouble keeping up with it along with her flat. She sold it months ago to an anonymous buyer, and though it broke her heart to give it up, Molly knew she could never have kept it.

Earlier in the year, not long before Mary died, she had droned on and on to Sherlock about the situation; not that he was listening, but it felt good to just get it out. Three months ago, things were such a mess what with the Sherrinford incident. The entire year had been a tragic with the exception of Rosie's arrival in the world. Eventually, they all began healing. Sherlock had been so convinced he had lost her friendship over what his sister did to them, but instead, it brought them closer. They were the best of friends and absolutely inseparable. And both had the knowledge of what was true in their hearts. Yes, they loved each other—they were in love and aware of it—but neither one had the courage to cross that line whilst they were still so fragile.

Work was getting to be a daunting task lately. Sherlock had tried to convince her to take a holiday already, but Molly worked right through the healing process. What surprised her, however, was that Sherlock had taken a hiatus from solving crimes. She was glad he gave himself the time to process things. He wasn't fully back in the game yet, only solving a couple mellow cases a week, but he was making progress.

"Ah, Molly!" he exclaimed, sweeping in through the doors ever so gracefully. He looked well—much healthier than Molly had ever seen him. Over the last few months, he had gone cold turkey on smoking and drugs. He had been attending every meeting at the rehabilitation center, and had been seeing a therapist regularly. Yes, Sherlock Holmes had never looked better. "You're coming with me," he told her in a playful manner, attempting to drag her away from the paperwork left on her desk.

"I'm not going anywhere until this paperwork is finished," Molly replied, ignoring how he gently tugged on her hand.

"Leave it," he told her, "someone else is coming in to finish it." Now, he knew he caught her attention.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, furrowing her brows in confusion.

Sherlock grinned like the Cheshire cat, mischief written on his face. "We are going on holiday, my dear Molly! I've already packed your things—yes, I have your favourite pairs of jeans ready to go."

"What about my—?"

"Favourite pairs of knickers? Packed."

If Molly had been drinking her bottle of water, a spit take would have definitely occurred. "How'd you figure that out?"

Sherlock smiled cheekily. "Not telling." He grabbed her hand. "Now, come on, we've got a train to catch, Molly! Don't worry; I worked it all out with Stamford who agrees you need a holiday, by the way."

She had no idea what had gotten into him. Not that she didn't enjoy this playful side—she loved it—but it was so unexpected. It was almost as if he was Scrooge at the end of _A Christmas Carol_. "Say, Sherlock," Molly began as they made their way out the hospital, "did three spirits happen to visit you overnight?"

He laughed in amusement. "Possibly," he quipped, leaving her wondering what in the hell got into him. Whatever it was, Molly knew she was going to enjoy the adventure that lie ahead.

* * *

Molly watched the scenery outside the window of the train. Sherlock sat across from her, reading one of Molly's books. She turned to him, noticing that he was quite engrossed in the story. Molly hadn't a clue about where they were going. It had only been half an hour since they boarded, but the anticipation was killing her.

"Okay, you've got to tell me where we're going," she told him, interrupting his reading. "Please?" She batted her lashes for full effect.

A hint of a smile appeared on his face when he looked at her. "I don't think so."

"Sherlock." Her face was serious now.

"What?" he replied, clearly enjoying the situation.

She knew he wouldn't budge, so she turned back to the window with a sigh. Another half an hour passed, and their surroundings were beginning to feel familiar, though Molly couldn't place it. She felt parched, in need of a drink.

The trolley was coming by, and Sherlock set the book aside. "Thirsty?" It was as if he read her mind.

"I would kill for a cup of tea," she joked.

When the man pushing the trolley approached their seats, he inquired if they wanted anything.

"Yes, a hot cup of that tea, there," Sherlock replied. "She's threatened to kill for it."

As Molly took the steaming cup in her hands, she questioned Sherlock. "Can you at least tell me how much longer we have?"

"Oh alright," Sherlock sighed. "About another half an hour."

"Have I been here before?" she asked.

"I answered one question already, that's enough," he teased her. "You'll ruin the surprise."

Molly took that as a yes. So, she'd been here before—their surroundings feeling familiar, but she couldn't place her finger on it. She shrugged, awaiting the end of their journey. She was too curious for her own good.

* * *

The remaining time passed quickly, and by the time they stepped off the train, Molly couldn't believe it. She was home.

"We're in Wellingborough?" Molly asked in disbelief as they moved their bags into their rental car, her voice small as she took in the familiar surroundings of where she grew up.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "I thought we could stay in the cottage on the Christmas tree farm your parents left you."

Molly's face fell. "Oh, Sherlock," she cried. "That was such a lovely thought, but I've sold the property. I couldn't keep up with it without any tenants."

After placing the last bag in the boot, Sherlock wrapped her up in his arms. "Molly, don't be upset—there's a part of the surprise you don't know." He grinned at her then, a pair of keys dangling from a key ring—the keys to her parents' cottage.

"What—how?" she asked, clearly confused.

"I was the anonymous buyer," Sherlock confessed. "You thought I wasn't listening to you, but over the months since I've bought it, I've had the property well taken care of."

Molly looked at him in bewilderment. "I know I didn't send the keys to Baker Street. Who exactly did I send the keys to?"

"My parents," he told her. "I let them know ahead of time of my plans."

Her face lit up as she laughed, not quite believing what she heard. "Sherlock Holmes, I could kiss you!" Her heart felt so alight, and in that moment, before either of them knew what was happening, she stood up on her toes and pressed a light kiss to his cheek.

He was shocked to say the least. Never did he experience receiving such gentle affection. His mouth was slightly agape, and from the way he was looking at her, he was clearly befuddled by her actions. Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes, well…we should be going. We still have a bit of a drive to the countryside."

Molly noticed his discomfort—or perhaps it was just shock. She hadn't meant to allow her impulses to overcome her, but it felt good. Besides, he had kissed her twice on the cheek before…why couldn't she return his friendly affections? It was only a kiss between friends…right?

* * *

**Author's Note: **I intended for this to be a one shot, but I suppose it won't be lol!


	2. Only One Bed

Thankfully, the car ride wasn't as awkward as Molly anticipated it to be. It was just a small peck on the cheek. They spent the time discussing Sherlock's most recent experiments and her most interesting autopsies. There were moments of comfortable silence where Molly took in the scenery outside the window, watching as evening fell. She hadn't been home in so long, having no family to go back to.

Upon arrival, Molly couldn't help but gasp. She all but jumped out of the car. The Christmas tress had been well taken care of, and the strings of fairy lights loomed above the entire farm. Snow covered every available surface, crunching beneath her feet as she explored her home as if it were the first time. Sherlock couldn't hold back the smile on his face as he watched Molly gaze at everything with such wonderment. Whisking her away was worth her reaction alone.

"It's just as I remembered it," Molly spoke in awe. "Sherlock, I can't believe you did all this."

"Oh, it was nothing," he replied humbly. "You're more than welcome to have the keys back." Sherlock fished them out of his pocket and held them out to her. Her smile was radiant as she retrieved them. "Well, go on inside, I've got the bags."

In her excitement, Molly practically leapt up the steps, surprised that she didn't slip. It was like stepping back in time as she entered the sitting room with its cream-coloured walls and wooden beams adorning the ceiling. The main source of light was a rustic lantern-style chandelier. There were also two sconces above the mantle of the fireplace that brought the room together. A chill ran down bone deep, and Molly immediately went to work on getting a fire going.

Sherlock had just come in with their bags, taking a look around the cottage. The architecture was absolutely breathtaking. He could see himself here with Molly when they would retire. Having such domestic fantasies would have once been disconcerting to him, but Sherlock was beginning to find comfort in domesticity. "Would you believe I've never actually been inside before?"

Molly laughed. "What? You bought a property without even looking at the inside?"

"Well, to be fair I didn't buy it for myself," Sherlock replied. "It's very nice."

As the flames finally flickered to life, Molly pushed herself up off the floor. Their bags still sat by the door and Sherlock was exploring the room with his eyes. She bit her bottom lip, wanting to say so much, but not wanting to ruin the lovely friendship they had. It had only been three months since Sherrinford which was hardly enough time for him to process the tragic past he had been completely unaware of. Her heart went out to him. She couldn't even begin to imagine the pain he must feel.

"Are you alright?" his voice brought her back to the present.

"Hmm? Oh, I'm fine," she, unfortunately, squeaked out. Clearing her throat, she walked over to pick up her bags. "I'm just gonna take these to my room. I can show you where they are," she offered.

He picked up his own bags, following right behind her. Sherlock was having trouble ridding his mind of images of snogging her. He often wondered about it—how she would react. Would she reciprocate or would she push him away? Sure, she loved him, but sometimes, love wasn't enough. Did she think he could be what she needed? Did she think he already was? No matter how much he wanted to, Sherlock could never work up the courage to act on these thoughts. Why must romance be so complicated?

Molly led him to the bedroom that was once hers and later turned into a guest room, but when she opened the door, the room was empty with the exception of a dresser against the far wall. "The previous tenants must have taken the bed with them," she told him. "Let me check on something real quick." She walked right down the hall to the master bedroom, all the furnishings right where she left them. This was not happening. There was only one bed available. How cliché. This was turning out to be a most interesting holiday.

* * *

As the time to go to sleep drew nearer, the more nervous Molly became. Looking at herself this way and that in the mirror, she felt that even her t-shirt nightie was too little material. Digging through her bags, she found a stretchy pair of black leggings and pulled them on, satisfied with the coverage they provided. She hadn't a clue why it was such a big deal—they had shared a bed before: her bed in her flat. Why hadn't Sherlock been this nervous over the situation?

* * *

Sherlock was nervous. He should have just taken the sofa, but then Molly would've insisted he needed the room, putting herself on the sofa. That he couldn't allow. The last time they shared a bed was the only time, but there were extenuating circumstances. At least that's what he had told himself in order to remain in denial about his feelings. But now that he was very much aware of those feelings, it was difficult for him to keep himself in check.

Thoughts of kissing her—anywhere and everywhere—had been plaguing his mind. It was torture. There have been times where he created scenarios in his mind palace before sleeping, the vision so vivid, he'd wake up calling for her. These kinds of dreams had been happening more often as of late, and he couldn't imagine what would happen if he had them whilst sharing a bed with her. Hopefully, he'd never have to find out.

* * *

Molly was beneath the covers, a book in hand and reading glasses perched on her nose, when Sherlock came in wearing his tartan pyjama pants and a simple white t-shirt. "I've almost finished this chapter, and I'll shut off the lamp," she told him, but his mind had obviously gone elsewhere. "Sherlock?" Nothing. His eyes were fixated on her, but he looked as if her were far away. _Oh God_, she thought, _I broke him_. Of course that was preposterous, but it was the only thing that came to mind.

"Sorry," he spoke suddenly, unsure of what else to add. She smiled sweetly at him in acknowledgement before finishing her chapter. Sherlock slipped into bed beside her, making sure to leave enough room between them, though he'd prefer to gather her up in his arms and hold her close. Would she let him if he did just that? Best not test it.

The lamp was clicked off only moments later, and Molly was burrowing herself beneath the covers. They were facing one another—that was a good sign. "Sherlock?" she whispered.

"Hmm?"

"Thank you," she smiled. "I can't believe you did this for me."

At that, he opened his eyes to the sight of Molly radiating joy, her hand outstretched just a little ways toward him. Sherlock met her halfway, placing his hand over hers. "I'd do anything for you, Molly." Those were the last words spoken before they drifted off to sleep. There was a moment in the middle of the night when he woke for a few minutes, coming to find that Molly had made her way to his side of the bed, her arm draped over him and her head on his chest. His own arm was cradling her against him.

"I love you," he whispered, drifting off to sleep once more.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Okay, so I'm probably making Sherlock wayyyy more of a romantic than the character actually is, but I haven't done that in my fics in a long time, and it's just so sweet!


	3. Under the Mistletoe Watching a Fire Glow

**Final chapter! I hope y'all enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock felt groggy in the morning, lazily reaching for Molly, but upon inspection, he realised she was no longer in bed. He could hear what sounded like someone rummaging through a box. He slipped out of bed and into his dressing gown to investigate. As he padded his way through the cottage, he found Molly sitting on the floor, digging through a box of Christmas decorations. From the looks of it, she had been decorating almost all morning. There was garland expertly adorning archways and the fireplace mantle. A tabletop tree was already decorated and set in the middle of the coffee table. Fairy lights were adorning the windows, waiting until evening to light up. He had to admit, she had done a great job.

"Morning," he greeted her, his tone conveying his amusement. "I see you've been busy."

"I woke up around eight and couldn't go back to sleep, so I thought I'd see what was left of this old thing," she explained, nudging the box. "There's still quite a bit to go through yet." Her stomach growled.

"Would you like some breakfast?" Sherlock offered.

"You cook?" she asked in surprise.

"I'm not completely helpless," he argued playfully. "It's not much different than chemistry. It's just more…edible."

"Well, if you're offering, I'm not gonna turn you down," she laughed. "I could use the sustenance." She paused for a moment. "And so could you."

Sherlock received the hint. He wasn't on any cases, so he was fine with eating, but he knew it worried her when he'd go days without doing so. Lately, since Sherrinford, he had been trying to be better about it—about everything, really. He had quit smoking, been regularly attending meetings for rehab, and seeing a therapist. Everyone kept remarking how well off he looked. His face was fuller, and he wasn't all skin and bones like he was nearly a decade ago. Regardless of all that, Molly still worried about him. He couldn't blame her after everything he had put her and their friends through.

He scrambled a few eggs and cooked up some bacon, filling the kitchen with the heavenly scent of food. Molly had covered the dining room table with a lacy snowflake tablecloth and set out the centerpiece upon it made with faux poinsettias and holly. By the time Sherlock divided up the food between their plates, Molly had found artificial mistletoe made of felt. It had small, plastic red berries and a pretty red bow tying it together. She was looking around the cottage to find a place to hang it.

_Oh, dear God, please don't,_ he thought. If she properly kissed him, he wouldn't have the strength to resist, and that was not an option right now.

"You look like you're about to have a meltdown." Molly's voice cut through his thoughts. She saw where his eyes zeroed in on the offending decoration. "Oh, I see," she realised. "Don't worry, it's just for decoration."

"Me? Worried? Never," Sherlock laughed nervously, attempting to put an end to the subject. "Breakfast is ready." He set their plates on the table and they ate in companionable silence. For some odd reason, he couldn't help but take in her presence. Her hair was loose over shoulders, and Sherlock longed to run his fingers through it—preferably whilst snogging her. Hey eyes seemed to have an extra sparkle to them whenever she looked at him, effectively sending his heart into overdrive.

Molly's stomach was in knots and it surprised her that she was able to eat. Why did he make it so difficult for her to keep her heart in check without even trying? Everything about him drove her wild, even when he was being a git. She was lovesick. And after waking up in his arms this morning, Molly couldn't deny her heart for much longer. She was trying to give him his space, but, she realised, if he really wanted it, he wouldn't be on holiday with her. He wouldn't be holding her in his sleep. The truth was Sherlock wanted her. But it was more than that.

When she got up to set her now-empty plate in the sink, Sherlock followed behind her with his, causing Molly to bump into him when she turned right back around. "Sorry," she smiled shyly whilst he set his plate down. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, Molly?" For some reason, he felt nervous. Why were his emotions so haywire?

"We need to talk about what happened last night," she told him.

Sherlock paled. "If this is about the cuddling, we can make a wall of pillows. It was just a natural reaction after—"

"You told me you loved me last night," Molly interrupted. "You said it without force or the endangerment of my life." It was written plainly on her face that this made her spirits lift.

Sherlock cradled her face in his hand, and she leaned into him, turning her head just enough to press a kiss to his palm. "I'm tired of dancing around each other when I'd rather be dancing with you." All these years, they had purposefully avoided going any further for their own reasons. He dropped his hand from her face. "But you make me want things I can't have."

Molly took his hand in hers before it went back to his side. "What makes you think you can't have this? That we can't have this?"

"Because once we take that step, you're going to realise you've made a horrible mistake, and that you've wasted all these years on someone so disappointing," Sherlock confessed. "I don't want to see you lose that sparkle in your eyes when you look at me."

Molly internally berated herself for tearing up, but she couldn't help it. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I love _you_, not some made up fantasy in my head. I have seen you through your worst, and I never—not for one moment did I ever consider leaving your side. I'm still here." She laughed in disbelief. "Hell, I have actually _tried_ to move on from you, but it's scientifically impossible. I will always love you, and you're stuck with me whether you like it or not."

Sherlock was left speechless. He loved that he was stuck with her. He loved it so much he bent down to capture her lips with his, wrapping his arms around her with one hand on the small of her back and the other on her waist. Molly's fingers tangled in his curls, pulling him closer, deepening their kiss. She traced the seam of his lips with the tip of her tongue, and Sherlock gladly welcomed her. He had waited so long to kiss her soft lips, to taste her tongue with his own.

"Molly," he spoke her name breathlessly in between kisses. "My Molly." He could feel her smile against his lips just before he broke away from her to trail soft kisses down her neck. She hummed in pleasure, leaning her head back, his hand now cradling it. Sherlock returned to her waiting lips, both of them stumbling toward the sitting room.

"Oof!" Molly exclaimed as backed into the arm of the sofa, falling back over it. Sherlock went down with her, keeping himself held up by his hands to refrain from crushing her. "That was fun," she giggled, her hair fanned out beneath her.

Sherlock, still hovering above her, couldn't agree more. He pressed his lips to hers once more, nuzzling his nose against hers. "I love you, Molly Hooper."

The way her eyes shined, the way she smiled at him—he had never seen her look at him in such an unabashed way. This is what her love for him looked like when she wasn't trying to keep it hidden, and he basked in the glow she emitted. It was never love he feared, but the idea that she would reject him. Right now, with her arms around his neck as she smiled up at him, he couldn't fathom why he ever thought she'd abandon him. Molly loved him so unconditionally, and he was ready to accept that love. He was ready to give her the same love in return—after all, she's the one who taught him how.

* * *

That evening, they had curled up together at the end of the sofa closest to the fire, snow falling in sheets outside. Molly had put on an old Bing Crosby record that was going on its third song. Sherlock had his arm around her, keeping her close. She took a sip of her wine, lost in her thoughts. Even if he could deduce what was on her mind, he found that he didn't want to. It was rather more rewarding if she chose to tell him.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, unable to keep his curiosity at bay.

Molly held the glass to her chest as she looked up at him. "That this place hasn't felt like home in a long time…not until you brought me back." She noted the confusion on his face. "What I mean is that I always thought home was a place, and when I lost that, I felt I lost myself. But you, Sherlock…you remind me of home. You _are_ my home."

"And you're mine," he admitted. Sherlock pulled out the faux mistletoe that he had been hiding behind the arm of the sofa, having been holding it in his hand. He dangled it above their heads, making Molly laugh. "I think you owe me a kiss, Miss Hooper."

"You're incorrigible," she teased, setting down her wine glass and pressing her lips to his. It was Sherlock's turn to bury his fingers in her hair, savoring how she felt, how she tasted, the wine on her tongue bittersweet. Somehow, she had found her way onto his lap without breaking the kiss, giving them both an easier reach.

Molly would be the death of him, but God, he would die a happy man. She called him incorrigible, but neither one of them could easily stop themselves once they got going. At this rate, he'd be carrying her off to bed, divesting each other of their clothes. _Or perhaps that last part happens first_, he thought as he felt Molly's fingers against his chest as she unbuttoned his shirt. He took her by surprise, sweeping her up in his arms.

"What are you doing?" she asked in amusement, knowing full well where they were headed.

"I'm taking you to bed," he replied cheekily. _And I'm going to make love to you for as long as we can go, _he added silently. Uh oh, not so silently. He stopped right at the door. "I…said that out loud, didn't I?"

Molly nodded, biting her lip in anticipation.

"Is that alright with you?" he asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"That's more than alright with me," she smiled, reaching down to open the door. Sherlock kissed her as he carried her over the threshold. Molly Hooper would indeed be the death of him—no doubt about it now—but she would also bring him back to life, for death could never keep them apart since it was what brought them together to begin with.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thank y'all so much for reading! Now, I must get back to The Adventure of Philip Anderson since my last holiday-themed fanfic has reached its sweet ending!


End file.
